Shaman's Norn Rifle of Water

Shaman's Norn Rifle of Water rests on the workbench, a slender arc of blue-steeled metal that catches the light like a tide-washed shell. Its barrel wears a silvery patina, etched with frost-blue runes that drift along its length as if wind chases ice across a frozen window. The stock, carved from pale ash, bears a satin glow, bound with river-dark leather that smells of rain and old wood. In the grip a totem—half a Norn shaman, half a river spirit—peeks out, the eyes inlaid with pale glass that reflect room light like a shallow pool suddenly revealed. The muzzle is crowned with brass rings linked by hair-thin wires, and the sights glow aquamarine, suggesting a call from the sea beyond the mountains every time you raise it to aim. Whispers say it was forged by a wandering shaman who learned to bottle storm-water and coax it to ride a shot, so a bullet could kiss the air with mist or lash an enemy with spray. The inscription along the fore-end reads Shaman's Norn Rifle of Water, but the letters ripple as if the river itself chose the name anew with every season. Its texture alternates between cool, almost dry steel and the smooth warmth of the ash stock, a tactile reminder that this weapon is both craft and conduit—a vessel for memories as much as for force. When the room cools and the wind shifts, the runes seem to hum, as though the weapon remembers a history of tides, baptisms, and long, patient hunts. In the field, the rifle becomes a storyteller. A well-timed shot can release a cascade of droplets that dampen a foe’s momentum, slow their advance, or blur the world with a fine mist that hides a pursuer in pale vapor. A deeper charge sends a wider spray across the ground, chilling the air and forcing enemies to improvise, while allies feel a cooling lull that steadies their breath and steadier hands. It rewards patience—watching the wind, reading the ground underfoot, listening for the whispered currents that only a Shaman’s weapon can hear. The Shaman's Norn Rifle of Water isn’t merely a tool; it’s a bridge between storm and stillness, between the hunted and the hunter, a relic that turns a battlefield into a riverbed where currents decide the outcome. In the broader world, it’s more than hardware. The rifle is a thread in a larger tapestry—the tale of Norn clans who respect the river as a living witness, of shamans who learned to barter with rain, and of traders who carry stories as carefully as weapons. Travelers swap myths about its power as easily as they swap tales of frost-kissed dawns on the Frost Gate road. And yet the rifle remains practical—a trusted partner to those who respect the water’s memory, to those who know that every shot carries not just force but a history of storms, travels, and the deep, patient work of listening to the world. On a sun-warmed afternoon, I watched a stall at Saddlebag Exchange where the Shaman's Norn Rifle of Water hung beside maps inked with river routes. The price tag whispered in gold—a price earned and earned again by those who understand the market’s mood, shifting with the river’s own rhythm, sometimes six gold, sometimes more, sometimes less, if a trader believes the water has dried just enough to feel lucky. A buyer pressed the wood and leather, and the rifle settled into a new hand like a vessel returning to sea. The river had moved on, and yet the weapon’s voice remained, guiding the hand that held it toward the next current, the next story.